Freddie and Cook Close
by blueandblack
Summary: Cook reminisces.


Cook walks down the street swinging his arms like he's trying to shake it all out of himself: him, her, love, loneliness.

All of it.

(He's just cold, he thinks. It's cold out, and movement is key, kinetic energy all that.

He starts jogging.)

Cook starts jogging and thinks about the things he just said, the misshapen words that slid out of his mouth like the beginning of a bad night at the end of it.

He shakes his head along with his fingers.

"Grow up."

That's not what he wants.

He wants Freddie to grow down. He wants him to grow right the fuck back down to where they used to be before Effy got to him. Before Effy got to _him_ too.

He wants to be the only thing Freddie needs for a good time. He wants Freddie to be the only thing he needs for a good time.

Spliff in the shed. The fucking sock puppets with knuckles for noses. Laughing so hard their lungs are gonna burst and waking up on the Persian rug with the cigarette burns in it like a ladder, like his height, my height, JJ's…

There were times without JJ.

(There were times with JJ too, good times, gotta love Jay, they both do, but…)

There were times without JJ when it seemed like the shed should have its own street address. Nah. A fridge first. A fridge, a pot to piss in, a bigger blanket and its own street address.

_Number one. Freddie and Cook Close._

* * *

Cook spluttered on the intake, dragged himself onto his side and looked up. "You're _shitting_ me?" he coughed out.

Freddie rolled his eyes, rubbed at the worn patch on the chair's arm. "I promised I'd tell you when it happened, didn't I?"

Cook's mouth opened and closed, once in shock, twice more for effect. "Yeah but I didn't think you meant it," he said.

Freddie shrugged, leaned down and snatched the joint back from Cook's fingers.

"_Fuck me!_" Cook wheezed. He rested his head back down on the floor, immediately raised it again. "What, _never_?" he asked. "You've never even – "

"I've done stuff," Freddie objected feebly. "Well _I_ haven't really done…" He sighed, bit back a grimace, took a drag. "It was weird. Think I'll stick to handling things myself for a bit."

"Nah, no, no way man," Cook said, wriggling closer to the chair and sitting up to a full ninety degrees to show he meant business. "I let this pansy-arsed shite slide with Jay, because, well, he's a bit funny, isn't he?"

Freddie shook his head, laughed, felt a little bit guilty about it, handed the joint back, stood up and walked to the door.

He was hungry, maybe. There was an egg sandwich in the fridge with his name on it.

His name and Cook's, he thought, with a wry smile.

"But you, mate," Cook continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Freddie was leaving. "You're well fit."

Freddie turned back, caught Cook's eye, rolled his quickly.

"And you've got that quiet, sensitive thing going – "

"Girls don't want to shag quiet and sensitive, Cook." Freddie sighed, smiled briefly, slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "They want to shag _you_."

Cook lay back down again, grinned from ear to ear. "Well that's true," he conceded gleefully. He turned his head, to the side, back and up, cocked an eyebrow. "I could have 'em lined up round the block for you."

Freddie shook his head, laughed, felt a little bit stupid, stepped over Cook's body and lay down next to him on the rug.

A beat passed with the spliff, back and forth and back again, and then Freddie breathed in, said on the exhale "I sort of want it to be – "

Cook interrupted him hurriedly. "Do _not_ say you want it to be special. _Jesus_."

He said it again, drawn out this time: "Jeeeeeesus." And "Fucking" and "Christ."

Another beat, and the joint burned out.

"Love," Cook said firmly, turning his head to the side. He couldn't quite look Freddie in the eye because they were too close, and each was a blur of skin and mouth for the other.

"What is it good for?" Freddie recited wearily.

Cook tossed the butt across the room, finished for them.

"Absolutely nothing."

* * *

Cook sits on a pale bed in a grey room and stares at his knees like he's willing them to stop shaking.

(He's just cold, he thinks. It's cold in here and…)

He thinks about the things he said to Freddie. _The last things,_ he realizes, and he can't believe he hasn't realized that till now.

"Grow up" was what he said but it wasn't what he wanted. And now he can say it all he wants… He can say it and he can mean it. He can wish for it more than anything...

More than a mother. (A Christmas that wasn't a crapshoot, a puppy that wasn't taken to the pound the first time it pissed on the stairs.)

More than his dad letting him stay on the boat. ('Fuck her, son. Fuck that miserable little slapper. Stick with me and we'll go places, _ha ha!_')

Cook grabs hold of his thighs, presses them down onto the mattress and thinks _More than Effy saying 'We're okay, just you and me, we're okay and I'll follow you wherever you want to go.'_

He speaks while he's still thinking, says the next bit out loud – no, not loud. Soft, so the cage doesn't rattle.

(You'll whisper when the porky fucker next door's having a nap if you know what's good for you.)

Cook smiles like you grind your teeth at night, lets his hands slide off his legs.

They start their trembling immediately, and he says, again, "To the end of the fucking earth, mate", tips his head back, blinks till his eyes are dry.


End file.
